If the fruit pleases the eye,
it is already a feast.

Press your teeth,
let the flesh confess
its honeyed psalm,
let juice run like a promise
kept.

The truth does not hide,
it ripens in the sun,
round and fragrant,
ready to be held.

Tend the soul like an orchard.
See past the peel,
look deeper than skin,
further than the horizon’s thin line.

Love with both hands,
and without gloves.
Reach,
and know your own hands
are made of mercy,
your spine a stem
that sways but does not break.
Touch,
and trust the weight
of your own grace,
the kindness that bends your branches,
the sorrow that roots you
deeper into earth.

Believe in the pulp,
the seed,
the inevitable bloom.